


Childlike

by deek_eh



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23123464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deek_eh/pseuds/deek_eh
Summary: "The first kiss can be as terrifying as the last." A love story, told forwards and backwards. Originally posted on FF.net back in 2012.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Tabris (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 5





	1. Still Hurting

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently working on revamping this story as I wrote it 8 years ago (definitely does not feel that long!). There will be minor rewrites and revamping but the original will remain on FF.net as is, as I've locked myself out of that account and find myself spedngin more time on Ao3 anyway.
> 
> I got the idea of this format after seeing the musical "The Last Five Years". If you haven't heard of it, it's worth a watch and the music is lovely.

_"I held her close for only a short time, but after she was gone, I'd see her smile on the face of a perfect stranger and I knew she would be there with me all the rest of my days."_

For all their work, Denerim was still in ruins. He could still smell sulphur on the wind, smoke still rose from the hardest hit locales. The market needed to be completely rebuilt, and the top of Fort Drakon would need to be replaced but most of the Alienage and the Palace district were in habitable condition, which he thanked the Maker for. If the Alienage had been wiped out, she-

He let out a shaky breath. Today, he needed to be strong, needed to be a face for his people. Today, he would be crowned and would be expected to lead Ferelden into a new era, one that had seen a Blight and lived to tell the tale. It had been they who had almost single-handedly quelled it, and he knew it would be a source of pride in the troubled times that would most certainly follow. His heart hurt at the loss of his fellow wardens, the first casualties of the fight, of Duncan, who had saved him from the Templars.

Of her.

A strangled sob escaped, bursting past the dam he built in his chest in hopes of stemming the pain. Maker, he missed her. He missed the feel of her breath on his cheek, the scent of her hair as she curled to his side, the affection in her gaze. She was quirky in her ways, her head often tilted and fond of touching to make a point. He remembered the look she'd given him at the city gates, head cocked to the side, chin dipped demurely down as she stared up at him. If only he hadn't stood down for once, fought harder to follow her…

He dropped his head into his hands. He knew it wouldn't have made a difference. He knew how stubborn she was, but he liked to entertain a fancy that if he had been on the roof with her, he could have been the one to kill the Archdemon. He'd had hope that Riordan would succeed in his task, that she would be smiling triumphantly on her return, pulling him into her arms and laughing at the fact they'd actually succeeded. When he had managed to get the fort with the others, he saw Riordan laid out at the top of the steps and she was nowhere in sight. Anxiety filled him as he searched the area until he found her, smaller than he ever seen her, cradled in Sten's arms. When the giant placed her next to Riordan, he took note of the fact she was clean, not a wound or blemish on her. Even in death, she seemed to glow and a burning warmth radiated from her as he pulled her into his arms.

He couldn't quite remember what happened after that.

The sigh of the mabari at his feet took him from his dark thoughts, and let his mind linger on that last night in Redcliffe. The night when they'd had enough room in their bed that they could move without their heads hitting canvas and where they'd talked all night, amongst other things. He would have given up the crown, made Anora queen, and rebuilt the Wardens at her side. He smiled at her choice of words, _"Can we just run to Orlais and live in sin?"_ He had to admit, it seemed now that she had the right idea.

The weight on his chest began to ache at the fringes. How was he going to do this? Every night since, he had dreamt of her, the visions coming in flashes of the past and glimpses of what could have been the future. He couldn't imagine doing anything without her; in such a short time she had become a fixture in his life. He had never been as close to anyone in his twenty-five years as he had been with her. She knew things he'd never gotten the chance to tell Duncan. Another shaky breath left him.

The sound of the door opening made Ross raise his head, snuffling at the air. When he laid his head back down with a loud whine, Alistair turned to look. A maid was carrying a tray with his breakfast, and she started when she saw him.

"Beg your pardon, your majesty. I did not think you'd be awake."

He watched as she unloaded the tray on the table near his balcony, chattering as she went, "The mage Wynne thought you might be nervous about today, so there is some tea that should help with that and I kept your breakfast light."

"Where's William?"

The girl paused in her work, "He is preparing your things for today, your majesty. He should be along shortly. Are you needing something?"

He sat back in his chair, running his hands over his face and stretching his legs out, "Thank you, Molly. Can you leave us please?"

With a quick curtsey, the girl rushed from the room, eager to be back amongst the commotion he knew filled the palace. He watched the fire for a while longer, before his stomach panged and he knew he should at least try to eat. As he stood, the scent of the food hit his senses, and his knees nearly buckled.

_Ginger._

The spicy smell overloaded his mind, and he rushed to throw open the balcony doors. The salty air blew into the room, carrying away the smells with it. He could not stop the tears that flowed then. His hands shook as he leaned on the balustrade, head bowed as his shoulders heaved. It was all he could do to keep from crying out. She always smelled of ginger. She would use it after bathing, would chew on it as they marched. She always said it was her favourite; that her mother would use it to block out the smells of the Alienage and would make ginger snaps to sell for income.

An unfathomable truth, heavy and abstruse, settled deep within him. She was gone, sacrificed for the end of the Blight. She now lay in the cold bowels of the Palace, kept preserved by Wynne magic until her cremation tomorrow, nothing more than a corpse. She felt so close, as though he could open a door and find her crooked smile on the other side of it, that she had just been taking a long rest after the battle.

The sun was rising higher in the sky, the happy sounds of excited citizens drifting up to him. He heard William enter and busy himself getting his things ready for the coronation. He fiddled with the amulet he wore around his neck, the one she had given him, stroked the smooth mirrored back. Today, he would be made king, and start to look to the future of his kingdom. But that future would be a poorer place without her in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Brian Andreas.


	2. Shems

" _It is better to be the widow of a hero, than the wife of a coward."_

Nelaros was different from the other elves in her Alienage. He seemed content with his life, full of hope for the future. For **their** future. 

Quyne had never been good at putting things in writing, living in the Alienage didn't call for it too much, but for every one page letter she wrote, he would send her back a veritable pamphlet, all on muslin and carrying the tangy scent of salt water. Highever was on the northern coast and the smithy where he worked was off the main road in from the docks.

He said the Alienage was under the cliffs of Highever Castle, right against the water's edge. Sometimes, he and his friends would breakfast in the sand, watching as the rising sun turned the ocean different colours. He told her he couldn't wait to share a sunrise with her.

And while she was upset to be leaving Denerim, she couldn't wait to get to know him better.

The morning that Shianni woke her up, shaking her by the shoulders to announce that he had arrived a day early, her heart refused to calm. Her hands shook as she dressed in her best, her father giving her a hug and sending her out to meet Soris. She cursed that he lived across the Alienage, lifting her skirt as she crossed the puddles around the Vhenadahl. Not soon enough, she crossed through the square again, trying to keep her nerves in check. Soris was just as frantic though he had never said a word to Valora, didn't know anything about her. He didn't know his betrothed’s likes and dislikes, didn't know what she even did with her life. If she had to guess, Quyne figured Valora was as resigned about their match as Soris was. Not the greatest start, she had thought at the time.

Then…Vaughn.

That man, with his whiskey scented breath and his groping hands, had the nerve to push around Nola and Shianni and expect her to come easily into his bed. She shuddered to think of how his breath had felt on her face. How his hands had felt as he grasped her shoulder so tight he'd left a bruise, before her cousin had taken the initiative and knocked him about the head. She had been trying to figure out damage control when the Highever elves rounded the corner, and any plans quickly evaporated from her mind.

He was stockier than she thought he'd be, strong forearms revealed by his rolled sleeves. He was the same height as Soris, but the similarities ended there. Wheat coloured hair, brown eyes sparkling, wide smile showing white teeth. The broad planes of his face marked him clearly for his heritage.

He was the most handsome elf she'd ever seen.

For a while, she couldn't speak; she just handed him the token of kinship, as was custom for all new arrivals to the Alienage. They stared at each other, unsure of how to continue. They had written for months, but hadn't yet heard the sound of each other's voices. Nelaros found the courage before she did. She remembered being surprised at the timbre of his voice, his lilting northern accent so different from those around her.

" _A gift of the people, and my beautiful bride to greet me? I'm a lucky man to be so welcomed."_

Eventually, Soris stepped in, obviously uncomfortable with his current situation. Later on that night, the young elves of Denerim dragged the bridal couples out to the local tavern and, at some point through the night, she grasped his hand under the table and he refused to let her go for the rest of the evening.

Feeling warm and tipsy, she had dragged him after Shianni and Taeodor as they stumbled drunkenly along the battlements surrounding their home. The sky was still clear, and the stars shone over the ocean. He’d wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her close, their feet hanging over the edge. They had already shared so much about each other, so they talked about the trip back to Highever, his bad smoking habits and how she’d managed to get a reference from the queen for a position with the Teryn. She knew he was much older than her; he would have already been eligible by the time she finished her schooling at the Chantry. Alcohol fuzzed the rest of the memory, but she could make out the rich sound of his laugh, the feel of his lips against her ear as he told her, _"I'll spend every waking moment learning to make you happy."_

She didn't like to remember much that happened after that.

As they marched towards Ostagar, it had taken every fibre of her being not to knock out Duncan and make her way back to the city. He was kind and kept his distance, leaving her to her own devices mostly, but she hated the shem for dragging her away, for leaving Soris to his fate at the hands of Arl Urien's guards. She thought he might have an idea of what she was thinking because he always insisted on first watch and slept with his hand on the dagger at his waist. By the time they arrived at the old fort, she was nearly vibrating with the anticipation of losing him among the crowd, then looping back and heading north.

That plan screeched to a halt the moment they met the King.

She had seen King Cailan a few times, when her position called for her to visit the royal residence in the upper levels of the Palace. She heard rumours he had a taste for women other than his queen, but he was always courteous to his female servants, with a kind, broad smile and polite manners. To see him in his golden armour was an imposing sight; he glittered in the high sunlight like the statues of Andraste in the Chantry courtyard. He seemed genuinely interested in the fact she'd come from his Alienage; she doubted the news had yet reached him. Duncan then released her to wander around the camp but the king's interest, coupled with the fact there weren't quite as many people in the camp as she thought, meant she had no chance of escaping.

So now, Quyne sat on a chest, reminiscing how she ended up watching three men in dresses twirling sticks in the air while eating some rations she’d acquired from a guard. A warm voice drew her away, "I don't understand what they're doing. They should be conserving their energies for the battle."

She looked up to see an older woman, stern looking with steel hair pulled into tight bun, standing with one hand on her waist while the other held a large stick. Dresses, sticks - she was thankful she'd never turned out to be a mage. She'd look as much of an idiot as those men weaving their wands around out there. "What exactly are they doing?"

The woman faced her, eyes twinkling, and a smile graced her features, the sternness giving away to a motherly face. Quyne swallowed thickly. This woman made her nervous. She quickly pushed all thoughts of Nelaros out of her head, unsure if the mage could see into her mind. "I'm Wynne, a healer with the Circle. And you are?"

Quyne tried to relax, letting the corners of her mouth turn up, "Quyne. Warden recruit at your service."

She seemed surprised, "A warden? I didn't know they took women anymore. But alas, I am just an old mage and the world is always changing. Where did they find you?"

While reluctant to share, Quyne found herself telling Wynne more than she wanted to. They sat together on the chest until the first tinges of orange reached the trees around them. She knew she had to find the junior warden before dark and excused herself quickly. As she turned to leave, a hand on her arm stopped her, "Don't keep sorrow in your heart for too long, Quyne. What's past has past, it cannot be changed; you shouldn't let the shadow of what could've been ruin what's to come to you."

She wasn't sure how she made it to the dais of the dilapidated great hall, shaking as she was. She tried to still her beating heart as she approached the two men arguing, one in a dress waving his arms frantically while the other stood back, clearly amused. She laughed at the robed man; she hoped Alistair wasn't the mage. She had just managed to calm herself when the tall one turned to her, a smile gracing his face. Any hold she had over herself dropped like a stone in her stomach.

' _Maker, he looks just like_ ** _him_** _._ '

If Nelaros had been alive, and human, he would be this person standing in front of her. Much taller than her, he was broad through the shoulders, with thick arms and thighs. Blonde hair turned gold in the sunlight, dark eyes mischievous, a broad smile. She took in the armour he wore, the green vest that poked through, the white sleeves that were rolled back. How they had felt on her bare skin when he held her close after-

She removed her helmet, tossing her head in hopes of drying her tears, ' _Time to buck up, Q. Look on the bright side, no gibbets in the Wardens.'_

"Are you Alistair?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Dolores Ibarurri


	3. One and Only

" _People living deeply have no fear of death."_

"Alistair, have you heard anything I've said?"

Eamon had to ask him three times before Alistair turned to acknowledge him. He really wasn't in the mood to talk anymore, not about the battle, the darkspawn, or the fact that there stood very little chance they would make it to Denerim in time. All he wanted right now was to be wrapped around her, holed up in their room. He was going to be king, and given the fact he'll never be crowned, shouldn't he have a say in how he may spend his last few nights alive?

Quyne had fled Riordan's room as soon as their conversation was over, before he had the chance to tell her that he would be the eldest warden's second. As king, he should be the one to sacrifice himself for his people, so they could be kept safe and whole from the threat. This shouldn't have even been an issue. Quyne was the leader - she had led them this far and the Wardens would need her afterwards to rebuild, "Alistair?"

"Eamon, it's late. Tomorrow, we leave and you'll have eight days to talk my ear off. Can we leave it for now?"

He didn't need to see the look of pity in Eamon's eyes, in Teagan's and Ser Perth's. His relationships were his own, and he didn't need their thoughts on them. When no one protested, he stood and nodded to the others before walking out as calmly as he could. A safe distance from Eamon's office, he took off, running through the hallways he remembered so well from when he was a child. Luckily their door was shut, and he gave himself a moment to pause and compose himself before swinging it open.

The first thing he noticed was how cold, how dark the room was and for a second, he doubted she was there. His eyes soon adjusted to the darkness and he heard a soft whimper. Her breath came in quick gasps and she shook with the cold. He rushed to stir a fire, keeping an eye on Quyne as she stared at the wall in front of her, arms wrapped tightly around her middle. Tear tracks lined her cheeks and her eyes were still glistening. 

Cursing Eamon, for lack of anyone else, he barely waited for the second log to catch before he pulled her up from the bed and tight to his chest, inhaling deeply. She was still alive, still smelled the same, still felt the same, and he would make sure she was the one who survived. The blood rushed through his ears, the only noise other than her choking sobs. He could only feel her body against his and the strength in the arms wrapped around his waist, "Alistair, you didn't see Morrigan in the halls, did you?"

Confused, he whispered into her hair, "I was stuck in Eamon's office, trying to figure out his troops. Is everything alright?"

He felt her body tense, and slowly rubbed circles along her back, "Easy there, love. What's happened?"

She pulled back enough to tilt her mouth to his, and his question was lost. There was an urgency to her movements, something she'd never had before; he’d always been the over-eager one. She pulled at the tunic he wore, pushing her hands against the skin of his stomach, his back, his shoulders. Pulling the offensive garment over his head, he went for hers but was stopped when she whirled them around and pushed him down on the bed. As she covered his body with hers, he became lost in the sensations of the soft pull of her lips, the feel of her body under his hands, her breath on his skin, the weight of her around his hips. He turned them over, pulling her close to his chest, their limbs tangling, and he was enveloped in everything that was _her._

Later, as they lay under the covers, contented and warm, she traced patterns on his bare chest, fingers curling in the smattering of fine hair. He sighed into her hair, letting the smell lull his senses. His warden senses let him catch the trace of his scent on her, the mix of ginger and warm hay, and it filled him with a sense of manly pride. She always smelled this way afterwards, even in the middle of the wilderness curled up in a musty tent. He made a promise to himself to hold her close, just as he was, every night until the end. A lump rose in his throat, that end wasn't too far off. He wanted more time, "We could run away. "

She made a noise, turned to rest her chin on his chest, staring up at him, "What do you mean? Leave right now?"

He smiled, wide and toothy, "We'll pack up, and leave a note. _So sorry. We've done all the work, now the dragon's up to you. Trust us, dragons are easy, you just have to_ -"

She laughed, loud and true, the sound filling him up, "Can we run to Orlais, at least? I've always wanted to go. We could live in sin, in a little cottage by the sea. Just you," she punctuated each word with a kiss, "and me, and Ross."

He made a face, "Your mutt? I thought we were running from Ferelden, and that includes the wet dog stench. He'll have to sleep outside at least."

Quyne hummed serenely, turned her gaze to the fire, "Just the three of us. I like the sound of that."

He nuzzled her ear, kissed the delicate tip sending a shiver down her spine. He wished he could find out every way to give her that reaction, every way to make her moan and gasp, to make her toes curl and her nails bite into him. He wanted to know what she looked like in an actual home, their home, practicing in the yard, making those ginger snaps she always talked about. He wanted to see her standing beside him in front of a revered mother. He wanted them to have children, who wouldn't be abandoned to be raised in a stable, who would be safe from the racism rife within the cities.

He wanted to grow old with her.

He managed to hold most of his tears at bay, buried his face in her hair to hide the rest of them. Quyne, who knew him too well, rested her head under his chin, "I know, Alistair. I want that too."

They didn't speak of the coming battle, didn't speak at all for the rest of the night. Alistair found she was just as desperate as he to memorize the other, to have something to hold on to after this mess was finished. He would do everything within his power to keep her safe, to make sure she wasn't left to make that hardest decision.

She'd gotten them this far, with no thought to her own wants, needs.

He would make sure she got the recognition she deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Anaiïs Nin.


	4. A Human Voice

" _When we lose the right to be different, we lose the privilege to be free._ "

Her curiosity was the reason for venturing into the Brecillian forest. Alistair had recommended they head to Redcliffe, as it was closer to Lothering, but Quyne had had a feeling that this would be their one chance to catch a clan. Maybe it was long forgotten instincts kicking in, maybe she was just over excited to meet her own kind.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a snap to her left. The Qunari had ducked the branch but his broadsword handle hadn't, leaving him to scowl at the offending tree. "This is a waste of time, wandering, looking for something that may not even be."

She held up her hand to silence him. "Sten, these are allies we need. The only waste of time is standing about talking. To the flank, if you please."

The giant scowled at her, but fell into step behind Alistair. She let out a breath of relief and reached down to pet Ross's head. "Can you smell anything, boy? Anything at all?"

The dark, beady eyes looked at her adoringly, before lowering his nose to the ground and sneaking forward, much too quiet for a beast of his size. They had advanced half a mile when he returned carrying a half-eaten chunk of bread. Upon examination, Quyne noticed the rustic nature of it and hope leapt back into her heart. She scratched behind the mabari's ears, and urged him forward, "Show us the way, boy."

They eventually came upon remnants of a camp, a camp that looked like it had been abandoned quickly and recently. Quyne nodded to Alistair, who casually adjusted his hand on the hilt of his blade, and pulled out the small dagger at her waist, slipping it into the underside of her vambrace. She could feel the cool metal through the sleeve of her tunic, and took comfort in the gentle weight of it. These may be elves, but she had no reason to trust them yet.

It was nearly nightfall when they finally stumbled into the patrol. Ross let out a warning growl that alerted them just in time before six bows were trained on them, each pulled taut under the strain of an arrow aimed at vital organs. "You trespass, shem, on dangerous land. Give us one reason we should not leave you here to rot?"

Quyne gave the woman a glare, before lifting her hands to pull her hair from her ears. The woman's face faltered, only for a moment, at the sight of the delicate points, the elegant shape so similar to her own. "Answer quickly, or turn back now."

"I am a Grey Warden, and I mean you no harm. I only wish to speak to your keeper, and we shall be on our way."

The woman's facade split completely and Quyne heard her whisper, "A Grey Warden?" She exchanged a glance with the elf next to her, who nodded once and lowered his bow. Raising a hand, the elf gave her a tight smile. "I am Mithra, and I guard the borders of this camp. You are brave, Warden, for venturing so close without an invitation. Come quickly, lingering is not an option in these parts."

Once it had been decided they would speak further with Zathrian in the morning, Quyne sat by the fire with Ross at her feet. The Dalish were retelling their stories to the youth while the adults half listened, enjoying the time to relax after their long day, "You look very much alike."

She had to crane her neck quite far to look up at the Qunari, seated beside her on the bench. Seeing her confused look, Sten continued, "You speak with the voice of a human, yet you are one of these people. Why is this?"

Quyne's gaze turned to the children scattered close to Sarel, her eyes focusing on a little girl. Her long dark hair was so similar to her own, the same upturned nose, the same wide bottom lip. She put her hand to her hair, fingering the short strands. It was still a sore spot after it had been cut by Vaughn and his men. She had always been proud of her hair, how she’d been able to keep it so long and healthy even in the Alienage conditions.

A shiver rolled down her spine as she stared at the girl, and felt a jealousy she'd never experienced. She'd been entranced by the Dalish and their ways as a child and had spent her whole time here in the same awe. But now, the moon was high in the sky and the spell was broken. She realised that while she did look so much like those around her, she would never be one of them. These elves knew a nomadic life and were one with the world around them, connected in a way she could never learn. She was unworthy in their eyes; she had let herself be pushed around in that alienage she had called home, let herself live a life of servitude to the shems. She could feel the tears pressing against her eyes, and refused to let them fall.

"Because I'm not one of them, Sten. I never will be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Charles Evan Hughes


	5. Consequences

_ "If you're going through hell, keep going." _

He knew it would happen, probably even before she did. The bruises may have faded, the wounds healed, but Alistair knew she was haunted by what had happened to her at the Fort. She refused to speak of it, on the grounds that if they couldn't piece it together from the injuries she'd had, then they were better off not knowing. She had spent long hours since in Eamon's library, where the balcony overlooked the market, with Zevran close at her side. He would never know why she trusted the assassin, but it was plain as day they shared a kinship, linked through something in their pasts he would never understand.

He didn't blame her for not sharing all of her thoughts with him. He knew how much she cared of how others perceived her, and so he guessed that she did not want him to think ill of her. She had told him most of her life, shared with him her regrets. He'd always been in awe of her, a young woman, just shy of eighteen, barely a woman at all, who was working and fighting and making decisions she should never have had to make. He often wondered at Duncan's reasoning for recruiting her, and then he'd remember the only other option for her was hanging in the Palace courtyard. He felt sick just thinking about it.

That same sick feeling came to him the moment they stood near the large tree in the middle of the Alienage, the moment when her cousin had hugged her in both relief and grief. These poor people were being exterminated, on account of the actions of their desperate kin who’d had only one choice for their own survival. The thought of the Arl's soldiers tearing through the Alienage in search of her, killing friends and family; he knew it must be hurting her. Now, almost half of the population had been shipped off on slaver ships, bound for a fate worse than death. He knew how lucky they were to have reached her father, though resigned as he was. He saw the flinch when they were told that her elder had already been sent away, and she seemed in a rush to leave her home, as if the Archdemon was at her heels that very moment.

He'd been pacing by the hearth in their room since they returned. He’d had a bath drawn and food placed out, but she'd yet to come in. He flexed his hands, curling them into fists and loosening to hang limp on his wrists. He felt like a caged animal, wanting to hold her close and wait for the inevitable storm that was to come, wishing to make it better. Anora's reaction to the situation added to the sick feeling, and he was sure Quyne was ready to commit regicide if Zevran hadn't pulled her aside wishing to ask a favour.

His musings were interrupted by a knock. The sound of the door swinging and the lack of footsteps that he knew to be Zevran, "She wishes to see you, and I have not been able to convince her to move."

Alistair gave the elf a sharp nod, "Thank you, Zevran."

He crossed quickly through the estate, passing no one. When he came to the library, Ross lay in front of the door, paws crossed under his head. His worried gaze met Alistair's and when he opened the door, the mabari trotted in towards his master. Alistair took a deep breath, then another, trying to settle his nerves. He wasn't sure what he'd find on the other side, but he knew he had to be strong. For her.

The balcony doors were open, letting in the cool night air. Even with summer fast approaching, the wind off the Amaranthine still held a bitter chill. As he crossed the room to close them, he caught sight of the mabari’s stubby tail making slow movements, and a pale hand scratching behind his ears. "Alistair?"

"Love, I-"

He was unsure of what to say, moving closer to where she sat in front of the fire. She was still in her armour, still covered in blood, some of which her mabari was licking away. Her newly shorn hair was still in disarray and she hunched over, one hand on the back of her neck, the other resting on Ross' head.

"I lied. Before."

Confused, he kept silent, hoping she'd go on, "In the Alienage? Shianni mentioned a wedding? My wedding, actually."

His blood ran cold; he had tried to put it out of his mind. She didn't need him accusing her of anything else at the moment, "You said he died?"

Quyne sat up, eyes averting his gaze to stare down at the mabari's fur. She was silent for a long moment, "Listen, if you don't want-"

"His name was Nelaros. He came from Highever. When I turned sixteen, my father told me the Hahren and he had arranged the match, that we were to get married in Denerim and travel back to his home on the coast. He had a good job as a smith's assistant there, and the Alienage wasn't as oppressive. Father suggested we write to each other, just so it wouldn't be so awkward when we did meet.

"It was the end of Drakonis, right before Ostagar. Originally, there was supposed to be a double wedding but my father and uncle agreed they'd rather their children each have a special day. He arrived a day early and I was anxious to meet him. I mean we'd written for months but never actually seen each other, spoken to each other.”

She took a deep breath, “Remember I told you about the Arl's son? How he crashed a wedding? It wasn't entirely unprovoked."

Her voice shook and he placed his hand on her shoulder, urging her to continue, "The day Ross arrived, Vaughn came down with his friends and harassed us. Shianni took the brunt of it. He had turned to me when she knocked him out with a jug, and his friends had to drag him away. We all knew there'd be repercussions but when the first wedding went off without a hitch, we assumed his pride was too wounded from being bested by a girl. Ross and I had a reception around the Vhenadahl, the whole Alienage was there. There were flowers and streamers and-” 

More shaking breaths, “But Soris wasn't so lucky. They came the next day, in the middle of his ceremony, knocked the men out, took the women. There were five of us, one for each of them."

Alistair didn’t realise he was clenching his jaw until his teeth made a grinding noise. He knew he should pull away his hand so his grip didn't hurt her but found he couldn't release the tense muscle, "Is that how he died?"

He saw the wry grin on her face, "He should have been so lucky. He stormed the estate with Soris, said he would hold off the guards while Soris grabbed us. The guards… they overpowered him just as we got there," Here she paused, he could feel her shoulders quaking as she fought down a sob, "You know, I only had three days with him. Only married for twenty four hours,” A chuckle, another pause, "He died in my arms."

Neither of them said anything, Alistair couldn't find any words. He had seen the ring she wore on her right hand, always wondered but never thought it was his business. He heard her sigh,

"Is it my fault? Did I cause this?"

He quickly knelt by her side, grasping her knee. "Never think that. There is no way of knowing how far Loghain's madness has run."

Quyne still refused to meet his gaze, "Arl Howe was the one who called the purge. His men were looking for me. If I had just stayed…"

"You would have swung from a gibbet, and the alienage would be much worse off with no one to stop the slaving.”

Her petting stilled and Ross protested with a small whimper. Alistair met her clear blue eyes levelly, trying to find an inkling of what she might need at this very moment. Eventually, a small smile graced her lips. His heart stuttered. He clutched her hand between his, trying to warm her fingers, work free the tension he could see in every part of her body. "Alistair, how can I face any of them?"

"Quyne, you heard what your cousin said. He blames you for nothing. Neither does Shianni, your father. They all love you still, you are a beacon of hope to them," her eyes darted up to his at that, "they see you and feel that better days are coming. You returned to them, against the odds, and you've delivered them from their oppressors. Twice. I think that's pretty damn admirable."

He could see the motions of her thoughts, her eyes focused on the flames in the hearth. Neither of them said anything for a long while, and when Alistair next looked from her, he could see tinges of pink out the windows lighting the room, the fire long since gone out.

"I never wanted this. I'm not a hero; they're all mistaken."

Alistair smiled warmly at her, "I think we're all heroes, if you catch us at the right time."

Quyne's smile reached her eyes this time. He took this chance to pull her into his arms, hands resting on the flat of her back, face buried in her neck. "I still mean what I said before, you know that?"

His grip tightened, inhaling deeply, relishing in their closeness. She always smelled of ginger, spicy and homely. He drew back to look at her face, only managing a nod as she reached up to stroke his cheek. She may have been an unwilling saviour, a reluctant figure, but she was by far the strongest woman he'd ever met. He knew if anyone could lead their armies to end the blight, it would be her. 

And he would stand beside her to the very end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Winston Churchill.


	6. Between A Rock And A Hard Place

_ "He smiled in a way that made me want to kiss him right on the spot. Or the lips. Whichever was closer." _

Ross was the only reason they'd gone to Honnleath. After they'd run into that merchant on their way to Redcliffe, he'd caught the scent of the so-called 'golem control rod' and took off, sniffing his way back south. They'd dithered for a while, not wanting to lose ground, but the mabari was so insistent that Quyne suggested a small band of them follow the anxious mutt.

As usual, any plans they had for a quick search were thwarted by darkspawn. They hadn't been in the village for five minutes before the first genlocks ran out. Not only had the trip taken all day and they had had to camp in the abandoned town, they had acquired a golem. An actual stone golem.

She perched on the edge of the log they had pulled towards their fire. Zevran reasoned the best place to stay was the centre ring of town, so that they could easily see anything approaching. She had to admit, their new companion was proving quite indispensable. While they both fought the same, he had a cat-like grace she didn't and was able to slip unnoticed in and out between their enemies. And while he may have been a good asset to their little band of merry misfits, she didn't trust him out of her sight. 

Between the assassin and the standing pile of rocks standing a ways from the fire, she was glad she'd brought Alistair with her.

Her father always told her she was small because she'd been born early, that she was too stubborn to stay in her mother's womb any longer. Being small did have it's advantages; she'd been the best pickpocket when she was younger. Could beg a bit more in the Market. Now that she'd reached maturity, she was still heads under all the males in the Alienage, shorter than most women she'd met. Knowing she was small made being near Shale all the more nerve wracking. That thing could probably sit on her and never even notice. She, Quyne assumed it was a she, was literally solid, easily able to squish her like she'd done to the birds that littered the town square. Every movement the massive golem made put her on edge, what with fists bigger than her skull. She found herself flinching for most of the night. Speaking of massive…

Her face flushed as she remembered what had happened last night, and almost every night since they had crossed back through Lothering. Nothing had remained of the town, and her mind had reeled with the possibility of that happening to her own home. She'd sought solace with Alistair, and he'd given her more comfort than she would have imagined. Her toes curled, and her body grew warm as she thought of the feel of him under her, against her skin. His hands dwarfed hers, legs so much longer than her own. He could tuck her up under his arm with no strain. She seemed even smaller next to his bulk but when he pressed her into his shoulder and whispered into her hair, she felt on top of the world.

All previous assumptions she'd had about him were wrong. The more time they spent together, she came to see he wasn't as much like  _ him _ as she'd thought. What she thought had been tricks of the setting sun turned out to be real, his red-gold hair, warm, light eyes that reminded her of the thick honey they sometimes had at Satinalia at home.

Everything about him was golden.

At first, she'd had trouble finding a difference between Alistair and Nelaros. They were both kind to her, both had a good heart, a good head on their shoulders. She wasn't sure how old Alistair was but she imagined they would have been close to the same age. She thought they would have gotten along great, had they ever had the chance to meet. Both shared a dry sense of humour, witty and unabashed. But Alistair brought up feelings in her she'd never felt with Ross, she wondered if she might have felt them in time. With Ross, they were so similar that it would have been as easy as breathing; she was lucky if a day went by without her and Alistair arguing. They argued about everything from the treaties to the watch schedule to the pros and cons of leather versus dragonskin. And when Ross had touched her, she'd felt tingles and shivers, warm and pleasurable, but with Alistair…

It burned, like a fire flowed through her veins, that only he could quench with a kiss, a touch. As soon as his skin touched hers, her heart formed it's own drum beat and the heat was unbearable. And when they came together, fitting perfectly, flawlessly, she felt whole, though she'd never realised she'd been missing anything.

"I hope it is me you are imagining,  _ cara. _ I do love that look on your face."

Quyne snapped out of her stupor to glare at the elf across from her, "Ah, that is quite a fetching red on you. Tell me, are we stolen away in your tent? Or are we right here, by this lovely warm fire?"

She tried to keep a straight face, but the smoulder he put on made her laugh, "I was just trying to imagine you, going about seducing the only woman in our little group who hasn't fallen for your charm."

He paused, looking over his shoulder at Shale, before loosing a dark chuckle, "So you admit you find me charming?"

Quyne didn't answer, her gaze caught on something past his shoulder. Alistair had come back up the hill from the well; he always did get the most blood on him after a fight. He had a bundle of wood tucked under one arm, and his sopping wet shirt over the other. It took her mind a moment to process that his chest was bare, and as he came to the fire, she noticed the small bruises around his collarbone and a single one on his left hip. When he caught her looking, he sent her a very smug look, eyes heated with a promise for later.

The only sound she could make out around the pounding in her ears was Zevran's hearty laugh, "Now that, _ cara, _ is a beautiful colour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Shannon Hale.


	7. See, I'm Smiling

" _Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive._ "

The estate was the epitome of silence in the bustling city of Denerim. While some of the noise of the market filtered in, it would barely pass the thresholds of windows and doors only to be swallowed up by the feeling of melancholy that had descended on the company within. Alistair could hear nothing from where he stood, staring into the fireplace in Eamon's study, one hand on the mantle while he kept the other at his waist to keep from punching something.

He knew he should have gone with her. He should be going after her now, but Eamon decided it'd be best for two of their companions to sneak in under the cover of darkness, when the guards would be less vigilant and less prone to ask questions. Of course, he was still not allowed as Eamon thought it would jeopardize his chances at the Landsmeet. He figured if he still had a fortnight before anything would be decided, he should bloody well be able to do the things he wants while he can. For now, his mind was left to run over scenarios, each more horrid than the last. Leliana had relayed to him what had been in the Arl of Denerim's estate, and he was none too please with both Anora and Eamon at the moment because of it. Eamon should have warned Quyne of the madness that this Arl Howe had descended into and he wouldn't even let himself think of that shrew. If things went as he wished them too, the queen would be thrown into Fort Drakon herself and never see the light of day again. He knew she was cunning, but to be so cruel as to let her saviour be captured by her father's own men-

His fist shook under the strain of his grasp.

His heart hurt to think of Quyne being kept in that fort. To think of her being dragged across floor of the estate, tied to the back of Cauthrien's horse and pulled through the back alleys of Denerim. To think of her thrown into some cell, subject to whatever torture Loghain would sink to. He felt a tear slip down his cheek and had to push himself away from the fireplace before he let himself take a burning log and throw it at Anora. By the time Zevran and Wynne got there, four days will have past with Quyne in Loghain's grasp. Eamon knew if they tried too soon, they'd be walking into a trap. He strode over to the window and stared down at the busy market, muddled through the glass. The sun was just starting to descend across the sky, but he knew it would still be hours before darkness fell. Resting his head against the cool glass, Alistair closed his eyes and tried to remember her face, the shape of her blue eyes, the turned-up tip of her nose, the swell of her bottom lip that was so enticing. They hadn't been apart long and, yet, his hands itched for the feel of her body. He had tried to sleep the night before last, but nightmares reminiscent of those he'd had in Orzammar haunted him more than ever. He hadn't had dreams this bad since his joining and knew the Archdemon was to blame. 

A commotion from the hallway drew his attention from the window, the sound of footsteps and raised voices echoing in the stone room. He crossed the room in great strides, throwing open the door to find the staff in a flurry and Leliana trying to make her way to him. Meeting her gaze, his heart stopped when he saw the sad smile on her face. In that moment, Alistair knew she was back. He rushed through the halls of the estate to the entrance hall where he could make out Oghren's flaming hair against the sea of dull brown clothing crowding around.

And there she was, leaning against the dwarf for support and laughing of all things. His heart stuttered, his stomach dropped when he met her eyes. One was swollen completely shut, and blood dripped down her left cheek, but a smile still graced her beautiful face. She limped towards him and slipped her free arm around his neck, the limb trembling under the strain of movement. He felt her breath hot on his neck as he helped her to their room, "I love you."

Later, after the mages had been and gone, he stared into the fire's glow for the second time that day. He couldn't bring himself to look at her for long, the bruises slowly fading, skin still pale. The old mage had healed her injuries, and she would be fine, but the marks would remain for a little while longer. He had helped remove the stolen guard armour, too big for her small frame and left heavy marks on her shoulders. The ribs an angry red, the wrists and ankles rubbed raw, the fingernails broken, the elbows and knees swollen and loose. He knew the signs, and his stomach heaved as his imagination ran wild with the picture of her on the rack. He had heaved when Morrigan had pushed back the chopped hair to reveal her disfigured ear. The bastards had pierced her left ear, the pointed tip gone leaving only a ragged edge. Rushing from the room, he had emptied his stomach in a nearby vase and lingered outside the door until Wynne called him in.

He heard movement from the bed and he moved quickly to her side, eyes searching for signs of distress. He saw her eyes move rapidly under the lids, and hoped she dreamed of better things. Looking down on her, he tried to memorize her face again. The hard, bitter truth was that, if she hadn't managed to escape, she would have been too far out of reach when their companions rescued her. It shook him to his core. On their travels, they'd had so many injuries from the darkspawn and a variety of other foes, but this was done with a different kind of intention, by the very men they were struggling so hard to save. Alistair wanted to laugh at the twisted reality of it. He was drawn from his thoughts when he noticed the turned-up corners of her lips, "If you're going to stare at me Alistair, can you at least smile? I'd rather not be the reason you wrinkle prematurely."

His eyes focused in on her face, the left eye bloodshot and bruised, lips dry and cracked. Her hair was dirty and hung limp, but was clear of the mats that had been there when she arrived. Her skin looked raw; the women had obviously tried to clean her up to make her feel more comfortable. By the time he'd realized he was staring, a grin had broken across her face and he could barely contain his tears. He swiftly lowered himself to the bed and grasped her small hand in his. She let out a chuckle and brought her other hand to cover his, causing him to promptly put it back at her side.

"Don't move too much. Wynne said you need to rest as long as you can."

She laughed softly, "It's just a little moving. I'm not broken, Alistair."

At her words, he felt his control slip and before he knew it, hot tears rolled down his face. He lowered his head to rest against the hand he held. He felt ridiculous, but the tears, the sobs came unbidden. He felt like a fool for crying when he knew she was the one in so much pain. Still, the hand she rested on top of his head was a comforting presence when he should have been comforting her. "Quyne, I-"

She shushed him with a tap on his head, "Hush, Alistair. You don't need to say anything. I'm here, I'm safe, I'm whole."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Josephine Hart.


	8. Warmth

_"To die and part is a less evil; but to part and live, there, there is the torment."_

She quickly lost count of the days the further they had ventured into the Deep Roads. The only thing she was aware of was the weariness in her bones. The heaviness of her pack. The aching in her body that seemed to have no end and no beginning. She was grateful for Oghren's unfailing optimism, as well as his ability to manoeuvre the passages meaning she did not have to lead. They had been walking for hours since their last rest stop and the air was tasting less foul. The whole company could feel the change in the atmosphere, the coolness of the higher ground, the lack of stillness that had seemed to fill the depths of the world.

Quyne thought she might cry when Oghren spun around and announced they would be back in time for an evening meal. They stopped at the first spring they found, drinking greedily on fresh water for the first time in so long. Alistair pulled some rations out of his pack and passed them around, but everyone was so anxious to return that they only picked at their food. She took this time to study her companions, making a mental note on how they faired. Out of all of them, Sten seemed the most unperturbed and while his skin was dirty, his eyes still held their strength and his face still set in it's ever present frown. Oghren's beard, between the singed patches to the mats, looked as though it had seen better days and she could tell Branka's betrayal had affected him to his core. Still, the dwarf ate his fill of rations and offered her an encouraging smile when he caught her eye.

She had no idea what Alistair was thinking.

They had barely talked since they had left the shores of Lake Calenhad. His words had stung deeply, and she wondered if there was any way to salvage what had been their relationship. She didn't know where they stood. He had kissed her that night, when she'd been upset by the Dalish, and things had progressed quite quickly from there. Her mind turned bitterly to Nelaros. Now that she'd lost Alistair as well, she regretted spending the time she did comparing the two of them. With all that had happened, she felt much older than her sixteen years. But the heat Alistair instilled in her, it made her feel she was just a normal girl, of marriageable age, and she had entertained the thoughts of what might lay for them after this frustrating Blight.

 _Wait-_ She stilled her hands, busy pulling apart her crust of bread. When they had passed through Redcliffe, it had been in the last days of August, which meant the 27th of Justinian had long passed. She had turned seventeen without even realizing it, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth. If she had been in the Alienage, there would have been a celebration, held in the tavern, with all the inhabitants invited. There would be drink and food, as they would have saved up for the occasion, and she would be gifted with flowers and a small piece of bark fallen from the Vhenadahl, painted with a blessing from Valendrian.

But no, if all had gone as planned, she would be celebrating with Nelaros in Highever, close to the shore, where the Alienage was in better condition than Denerim's. Would it have been the same? Would she have celebrated with his family, or would she already have a family of her own?

She shook her head of such nonsense, but her hands still rested on her stomach. Nelaros was dead, stolen from her before they could even begin their life, and now that the taint flowed through her body-

"Quyne?"

Her train of thought was broken at the sound of Alistair's voice from over her left shoulder, glancing up to see a grim look on his face, "Are you alright?"

Maker, she missed how warm he was.

"Yes, Alistair. Just glad to be out of here."

Altogether too soon, they dragged themselves up and continued on down the dimly lit hall. Quyne could soon smell the change in the air, the smell of industry and city life and everything she missed of Denerim. When they finally reached the heavy door that marked the entrance to Orzammar, they paused for a breath to exchange a glance at each other before pushing through. A lone guard was snoozing at the gate, and Oghren smacked over him head as they passed.

The walk through the city was met with quiet, every dwarf they passed stopped and stared, and it seemed to drag on forever until they reached Chamber of the Assembly. She nearly walked past it, if Alistair hadn't grabbed her elbow, she'd have probably circled all the way around. His reassuring smile calmed her pounding heart and fretful mind, and as they waited outside the Inner Chamber, hearing the shouting from the caucuses inside, she had to fight the urge to reach out and grasp his hand. She was supposed to be mad at him, after all.

"So did you make up your mind, Warden?"

Her mouth moved into a grim line. Oghren was looking at her, his gaze unsteady and dispassionate. She could see how the loss of Branka affected him, even if he didn't let it show. He was a strong soul, and she'd been glad to have him in the darkness of the Deep Roads. He grinned, his beard moving with his face; she found his facial hair quite fascinating. Elves didn't tend to have much of it.

She was about to voice her indecision when the Steward beckoned them. Panic quickly rising in her, she held her hand out to Oghren. "Quick, give me a coin."

Her three companions all looked lost, none of them comprehending her reasoning. The Steward clearing his throat stressed that they were out of time, and she reached for the pouch on Oghren's belt, pulling out a sovereign and turning in her fingers. "Have you lost your mind? What you are doing?"

She sent a glare in Alistair's direction, and he backed off, remembering their argument in the Tower, before his face settled into a look of displeasure. He really needed to stop questioning her.

"King's up, it's Bhelen."

And she flipped the coin in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by George Lansdowne


	9. Arms

_"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."_

He knew she hadn't been sleeping since they'd left the deep roads. They had been so anxious to get out of there as fast as possible that they'd rested little, and they'd been back in Orzammar for almost two weeks recuperating. They'd been given rooms in the royal palace by the grateful Bhelen, and been tended to on hand and foot by the help. Alistair was glad for the privacy of the rooms, as they'd each been gifted their own and he was able to relax for the first time in months. They had planned to leave within the fortnight, their party splitting in half to continue either to Redcliffe or find this mysterious Haven they'd learned from Brother Genitivi's work. He'd been able to sleep comfortably through the night, and had woken up fully rested after a few nights. Quyne, however, was another story.

He knew she woke screaming. He could hear it through the adjoining door that separated their rooms. It'd taken everything he had not to burst through the door, gather her up into his arms and hold her close. The deep roads had done horrible things to all of them, but...

The two wardens had gotten a glimpse of what they would become in a time that, all of a sudden, didn't seem far enough away.

Alistair had been awoken this night by something he couldn't place. He turned over, tried to go back to sleep but his body seemed so ill at ease that he decided to venture out and wander the palace halls. He'd been walking in circles it seemed until he came to the throne room. The vast hall of great stone seemed eerie, most of the torches had been extinguished save for a few marking the throne. A small dark figure sat on the warm stone floor, staring up to the tall throne seat, which seemed to glow in the dim light. He padded softly towards her and knelt just behind her shoulder, following her gaze to the symbol of the house of Aeducan.

"Bhelen will be a good king, I think. He'll listen to and care for his people, all of them."

Alistair noticed how her shoulders shook, how she shivered as though cold in the warm room. One of his favourite things about Orzammar was how warm it always was. Although the bitter cold of the Frostback Mountains raged above their heads, the city was kept balmy and comfortable. "It was a good decision, Quyne. The right one."

"I know that," she snapped. She attempted to glare at him, but didn't really have the energy to keep up appearances. He saw how thin her face look, how her eyes looked sunken and haunted from lack of sleep. He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering behind the delicate point; he'd always loved her ears. His fingers trailing downwards, he felt her lean into his touch as he traced her jaw and let his hand rest lightly around the back of her neck. Even in the dim light, he saw the gleaming lines down her cheeks and felt his heart clench.

"Are you frightened, Alistair? Of the Calling?"

Alistair swallowed thickly, and returned his gaze to the throne. He knew of what she spoke. The horrors of the Dead Trenches, the sound of those disembodied voices that echoed and followed where you went, the broodmothers. The thought of Quyne… He shook it off, not wanting to let his mind wander there, "No. Yes. I don't think we should be afraid of it. It's probably one of the most honourable ways to go, in my opinion. But I know that if I dare to, I will never live a full life for the fear of having to leave it behind. That fear would consume my heart if I let it."

Quyne cocked her head in contemplation. "I never used to be afraid of anything, it's the alienage that does that to you. I'm not afraid of men, or heights, or the cold, or most of the evil in this world so how can it be that I'm afraid of those I've been tasked to kill? How can I fear the darkspawn so? Why am I so afraid of them?"

The dam broke as she mused, and Alistair forgot that he was supposed to be mad at her, and her at him. He pulled her into a tight embrace. Her small frame was lighter than he remembered, but her skin was just as soft. He knew he shouldn't be so happy but the feel of her in his arms made him feel like he could overcome anything, like he could fight every darkspawn down there. Then he noticed how her chest heaved, how cold and clammy her skin felt and how thin her shift was against him, and how she clutched to him so tightly. He pulled her head into the crook of his neck, and placed a light kiss to her hair. They remained like that for a while, until he felt her lips move lightly against his neck.

"The only thing I'm more afraid of is losing you, Alistair. I've lost everything else in my life."

Alistair met her eyes, so dark in this light, and saw the corners of her mouth twitch up slightly. He quickly pressed his forehead to hers, "That'll never happen. I'm so sorry, love. I'm such an idiot, I-"

She quickly cut him off with a finger to his lips, which she accompanied with a thin smile. He quickly lifted her up and made his way back to his room. No more adjoining door tonight, not if he had anything to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Havelock Ellis


	10. Calm

" _Acceptance of one's life has nothing to do with resignation; it does not mean running away from the struggle. On the contrary, it means accepting it as it comes, with all the handicaps of heredity, of suffering, of psychological complexes and injustices."_

The Maker was seemingly omnipresent in Denerim, ever the focus of discussion within the Alienage itself. Many had lost their belief in anything altogether, whether it be the Maker or the old gods of their forefathers. Why believe in something that had the power to change such suffering, and yet did nothing to their plight? She had been fortunate in her youth to be chosen, alongside Nola, as a tribute to be blessed at the Chantry and work with the lay sister who frequented her home. Sister Fiola had been a kind woman, had taught her her letters and reading. She had taught her to contemplate the morality of her choices.

Taught her that the Maker was kind and gentle and forgiving.

She had found Sister Fiola face down in the alley leading into the Alienage, an occurrence that led to an uprising in the Alienage and the death of her mother. They had never found out what had happened, but she remembered the raised voices of the Hahren, her uncles and father in the night while she clutched her mother's thin pillow and curled closer to her cousins in the bed. They spoke something of a group of soldiers who worked under the Arl of Denerim, and a thousand questions ran through her mind though Soris tried to quell his kin's fears as best he could. From that night forward, she had clung to her family and friends, clung to those in the Alienage in the fear that another uprising could occur, that the men might return for more of those she loved.

And she swore that the Maker was a lie.

She turned her back on the teachings she had received, focused on her position in the Palace District, focused on her mother's lessons late into the night. And, though it had been years now, the words still flowed easily from her lips,

_"And together they searched ever deeper, until they found their prize, their god, their betrayer."_

A shiver ran down her spine as they wandered through the dimly lit hall, her eyes searching for the surprise of another apparition. Up ahead, the light grew and she heard sighs from behind her.

"I will be glad to see the end of this, _cara._ The call of a warm fire grows stronger the more I follow your lovely behind."

Quyne fought back a smirk at Zevran's attempt to lighten the mood. While it was true that the air was frigid, and she could barely feel her toes, she knew that Leliana needed the cloak more than she did and that Oghren was keeping himself warm with that flask of his. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, and tried to pull herself together. There was a strange feeling, a feeling that grew stranger the further they progressed. She had doubted the man at the entrance, convinced it was all smoke and mirrors, the ravings of a man driven mad by the mountain. And yet, the feeling was not of despair or of a lost cause; it closely resembled the feeling of being hugged by a parent, an evenness to her surroundings, a feeling of serenity. Such a feeling set her teeth on edge.

"Do you hear that?"

Leliana stepped in front and cautioned her to stop. Looking up at the taller woman, she was about to comment when a sleepy tune drifted past. A humming, a sound so familiar that she felt her heart stop.

_Hey_

As the smiling face turned her way, Quyne let out the breath she was unaware she'd been holding. She blinked several times, trying to find reason in the situation, "Shianni?"

_Who else?_

There was very little chance that her cousin stood before her, but her heart refused to believe that it was anything but real.

_It's good to see you, I suppose. Life out there's been good to you, hasn't it? You're respected, even among humans. Do you remember us, where you came from, and what some of us still face everyday? You don't even feel much anymore when you remember it, do you? You've moved on, past the horrors of that night. I envy you…_

"That's not true, Shianni. I think of it, of you and Nola, every single day," she couldn't bring herself to say _his_ name.

_When the Guardian asked, you wouldn't answer. Why? Some things are learned only when you find them for yourself. Still, you have come far. You've gone on to other things, things I can only dream of._

"Shianni, please-"

_You have a great task to complete. I want you to take this. I think you should have it. Seeing you now gives me hope…for all of us. Find peace in the happiness you've found, cousin._

_There is so little left in the world._

And, as sudden as lightning across the sky, she was gone. Quyne could feel a cool dampness on her cheeks, and the warmth of an arm around her waist. She heard Zevran whisper things foreign to her ear, and she found herself nodding along dumbly. Weight in her palm distracted her from her reverie, and she looked down at an amulet, it's chain wound through her fingers. As she played with the trinket, she could have sworn she saw Shianni's gaze twinkling up at her, her ever-present smirk bringing her great comfort. When she regained her composure, she flashed Zev a grateful smile and slipped the chain over her head, tucking it into her chest plate. The feeling of cool metal against her breast seemed to feed her fresh energy, and she moved forward through the temple with a new vigour.

When they reached a sunlit hall, and climbed the stairs to the altar, the same feeling of serenity that had haunted her throughout the trials reached a peak and she decided to welcome the embrace. As she fingered the inscription on the urn, and held a part of Andraste in her hands, she realized that she didn't have to see evidence to believe in something. To have blind faith, to have hope when things seem lost, to believe that some almighty power could carry you through when you wish to stop, was the Maker's greatest gift. That he is present in all the world, permeating the very beings of its inhabitants and filling them with a sense that some one will still love them, no matter their faults, no matter their discretions.

While He had taken her mother, and so many others from her life, He had given her a second chance with the Wardens, given her great friends, a best friend in Zevran. He had given her Alistair, who was quickly becoming a part of the soul she was never sure she'd had.

"Those fanatics must be getting antsy, dear one. Perhaps we should go and break their hearts a little?"

Quyne smiled brightly up at her friend, who returned a smirk of his own. "I think that's a great idea, Zev."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Paul Tournier and some dialogue by Bioware.


	11. Flaring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally much shorter, but I stumbled across a cut-scene when Alistair's approval fell really low in a playthrough. Needless to say, I snapped it up and threw it in here. I found it summed everything up better than I could have, even though I moved it to a different point in the story than where I found it. So the argument dialogue is half mine and half Bioware's. If you want to see some angry angsty Alistair, youtube it. It's harder than you think not to melt. Jesus, he's cute even when he's angry. Enjoy!

_"If you go in for argument, take care of your temper. Your logic, if you have any, will take care of itself."_

They were all exhausted, that was plain as day. The climb up the tower was not doing anything to help the fact that he had not slept well for the past week. The problems of Redcliffe had taken their toll on this little party of theirs, and the final outcome had not left him pleased. As hard as he tried to justify Quyne's decision to let Isolde sacrifice herself, to justify that, if they had travelled to the tower for aid, they would be as stuck as they are now, his mind repeated to him that maybe there was another side to her that he'd never noticed. And now, she had given that templar over to a desire demon! He could barely contain his anger, and he wasn't sure if it had been the lack of sleep, their non-stop pace, everything since Ostagar or a combination of all three that caused him to utter his next words.

"Are you out of your bloody mind?

Three pairs of eyes looked at him curiously. The silence soon became overwhelming and Alistair huffed, "You! Care to tell me what exactly is going on?"

Both Leliana and Wynne turned to look at the petite elf, who was leaning heavily against the stone wall. Quyne tilted her head to the side in a confused gesture. Inside, Alistair could feel his blood boiling. How can she act so innocent? As if she hadn't condemned two people to their death, all for a lack of patience. Having had enough, he grabbed her roughly by the arm and pulled her into the First Enchanter's office, slamming the door behind them.

She looked up at him, uncertainty in her clear blue eyes. "Alistair, what is this all about?"

"Why didn't you fight? Why did you condemn that poor man to torture?"

He could tell she was shocked, but that didn't stop him. "Have you any idea what that demon will do to him? Keep him trapped until he wastes away to nothing but armour and bones, and then leave him to die!"

She tried to remove her arm from his splint-mail grasp, but his fingers grew tighter with each tug and pull. Noticing a lost cause when she saw one, she sighed and brushed her hair from her face with her free hand. "Understand, Alistair, I thought it might be for the best for him. He seemed happy-"

"Happy! Oh yes, happy to have fallen unsuspected into a desire demon's hands and be played for the rest of his life! And I supposed you thought it was for the best that Isolde die for what her son did?"

Quyne's eyes met his in a flash, searching for some hidden meaning to his words. He glared down at her and jerked her closer, ignoring the wince that graced her face. "You know that's not how it happened. She was willing to sacrifice herself for Connor's and the Arl's safety."

"There were other options! No one had to die."

"And you think I wanted her to die?"

He was thrown off by her yell. Using his moment of weakness, Quyne pulled her arm out of his hand and pushed him away from her. Staring her down, Alistair tried to find some form of falseness to her face. All he could see was a harsh mask of stoicism, the only thing giving her away being the glazed look in her eyes, the slight tremble of her lip.

Clearing her throat, she rolled her one shoulder and readjusted her vambrace, "Is there anything else?"

Her tone made his anger rear again, his blood boiling with another argument, "You're a Grey Warden. I know you weren't one for very long before Duncan and the rest were all killed, but that didn't mean you stopped being one!"

Her face remained calm, but Quyne's eye flashed dangerously, "What exactly is your issue, Alistair?"

"What exactly is my issue? I'm sorry, but did you think I was deaf as well as blind? Give me some credit."

He tried to breathe through his nose to calm himself, and placed his hands on her shoulders to try and steady his shaking. He hoped those tingles would bring him back down, "There is so much at stake."

She stared him straight in the eye, "You're welcome to go off on your own."

He dropped his hands at her deadpan, "Right, fat lot of good that would do me, wouldn't it? And because of that I have to stand by and watch you disgrace everything I hold dear?"

"The Grey Wardens do what is needed - not what is nice. That is something I learned from Duncan right from the start when he saved this murderer from execution."

He faltered for a moment, "Nice would be miles beyond where you are. I'm not even looking for 'nice'. I'm talking about being a decent human being."

He didn't notice the tears filling her eyes again, "I'm sorry, am I not good enough to suit you?"

In his anger, he never noticed the context of her words, "I don't think you're a good enough person to suit anyone. Duncan must have truly been desperate when he chose you. Or blind, take your pick. You don't even care about this incredibly important duty we have, do you?"

Her voice shook, and he wasn't sure why, "I'm doing the best I can."

"Really? It doesn't seem like it would be hard to do better; and if it is, I'd have to wonder why. Most people are capable of decency without needing practice."

At that very moment, Alistair realised he'd gone too far. He had no idea where his anger came from, he hadn't meant to say almost everything he had. Horror filled his mind as he thought of how she could have taken his last words, and his first instinct was to throw himself off the tower. They stood in a tense silence, her stern gaze beating down on him. Finally, she shifted and her chin tilted out as though defying his very presence, "I'm sorry you feel that way."

At the lack of a retort, she walked towards the exit and stopped at the door. Looking over her shoulder, she caught Alistair's eye, "You undermine me in front of my men again, Warden, and I will not be so forgiving. Consider this a warning."

Alistair started, unsure of this frozen feeling inside of him. His heart sunk to a pit in the bottom of his stomach and he suddenly found himself swallowing a large lump. What had he done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Joseph Farrell. Any familiar dialogue is from Bioware.


	12. Fiercely

_"Let no one who loves be called altogether unhappy. Even love unreturned has its rainbow."_

Why was she being so indecisive?

She paced the length of the balcony, her mind running rampant. Alistair had been in Eamon's office for most of the day, discussing their next steps. It was something she probably should have been there for, but the look the old man had sent her way made her reconsider. So, while they decided the future of Ferelden, she'd locked herself in her room. Their room.

She plopped herself down on the stool in front of the vanity, her face falling into her hands. She rubbed at her skin before pulling her fingers through her hair, which was finally nearing the length it had been before Vaughn's lackeys had unceremoniously lopped it off. The glint of metal around her neck drew her eyes to the mirror, where her reflection stared back. She looked exhausted. Making faces at herself in the mirror, she tried to find a trace of the young girl that used to be there a year ago. The girl who knew nothing of war, of betrayal, of love. Quyne longed for the time when the only important thing was getting her work done and spending the evenings with her family. As oppressive as the Alienage was, there wasn't a day that went by she didn't wish for her old life. She would give anything to be back in her father's house, the one he'd shared with her mother for twenty years. She'd give up her daggers, her armour, all the wealth she'd acquired on this Maker forsaken quest.

She'd give up Alistair.

Alarm bells went off in her head at that thought. It couldn't have been normal, to be willing to give up the ones you love for an old life. And she did love him.

Didn't she?

She had seen people in love, her parents being the best example. And after her mother was murdered, she'd seen how torn her father had been. Things around the house began to fall into disrepair, and as a ten year old servant girl in the castle didn't give much in the way of payment, there was nothing she could do to help. The little money she did make was barely enough to feed them, and any money Cyrion made went into Alarith's pub. Eventually, it was Gethon who knocked some sense into him. She distinctly remembered the morning he came into the kitchen of Uncle Thom's home and scooped her up in his arms, hugging her tight and apologizing for things she wasn't sure of. And though the house was fixed up by fall, and her father stopped his drinking and found a better position at the docks, she can't recall the last time she'd seen him truly happy. A smile here and then, but never for long. Quiet and reserved, that was what her mother's death had made her father.

And every single day, they were out there fighting darkspawn, and Maker knows what else, in hopes of getting one step closer to the Archdemon. There had already been a few close calls between them, and she was infinitely glad Wynne was a part of their little adventure. She was scared to think what might have happened if she wasn't.

She knew she cared for Alistair. Cared for him more than Ross even, and she had known the elf longer than she had her fellow warden. The feel of his skin against hers, how warm he always seemed to be. She knew she was just as warm as the taint did burn. But Alistair, his warmth was like the sun. He radiated, and she knew she shouldn't get too close, or she'd melt away, every part of her would become his.

And she didn't want that.

Did she?

No, she didn't. They were in the middle of a war. The next battle, the next swing of a sword could be the end. By this time tomorrow, she could be clutching Alistair, trying to vain to shake him awake even though she knows he's gone. She would give him up if it meant not having to lose him. It would be another life, where he would go on to become king and they would never meet each other. But she couldn't change the past and now, there was only pain.

She wouldn't, couldn't to do that to herself. She didn't want to end up like her father, heartbroken, a different person nearly altogether.

The door creaking tore her from her thoughts, and she launched herself up from the stool. Alistair stood with a smile on his face, though the tightness around his eyes told her all she needed to know, _Eamon, you bastard. I hate you._

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, and relished the feeling when he returned the favour. His head dropped to breath deeply against her hair, something he seemed to love doing. Curious, with her head resting on his shoulder, her nose tickling the crook of his neck, she inhaled deeply. Warm grass, armour polish and was that smoke? She groaned unconsciously, and didn't notice when his arms tightened around her. The next, and last, thing she knew, he pulled her face up to his and covered her mouth with his own. She was soon lost in his heat, and it wasn't until they lay tangled among their bedsheets that she remembered herself.

She lay on her side, head tucked in the crook of her elbow. She couldn't suppress the shiver as Alistair ran his fingers lightly across her ribs, the dip of her waist, the slight swell of her hips. He had the most peaceful smile on his face, and she hated to watch it disappear, "He wants to make you king."

The long pause seemed even longer in the quiet room. Eventually, he pulled himself up to the edge of the bed and let loose the breath he'd been holding, his head falling into his hands. After a while, he stood and moved to the very window she'd spent most of her day looking out. He was surely a spectacular sight in the setting sun, bare-chested and brawny. And she blushed when she realized he still wore nothing. He turned back to face her, and the light hit his honey eyes. They seemed to glow as that smile settled back on his features, "You are, quite possibly, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She smiled lazily, and motioned for him to come back to bed. She couldn't help but stare at his thighs as he walked back over to the bed, the muscles in them flexing and straining. Maker, he was such a large man. She didn't think she'd ever get over how much there was of him. The feeling of being held near to his solid bulk was close to being one of her favourite things.

That didn't help her case at all.

As he slid back down next to her with a sigh, his big hand moved to rest on her hip, "That's the plan, at least. Eamon thinks it's the best choice to earn the support of the Landsmeet, to put me forward as Maric's heir. I feel like he just wants to put me in Cailan's place, and hope no one notices."

"No, Alistair. Eamon may be a bastard, but he can see how strong you are. He believes you can do it. And so do I."

Sitting up, she moved her head to rest on his shoulder, his arm wrapping around her waist, "It's going to be a hell of a fight, Quyne. Darkspawn seem like child's play against politics. You know I'm not the greatest at speaking."

"Then I will speak for you. You will make a great king, Alistair. And I know you will do great things for your country."

He placed a light kiss on her shoulder, "Our country. You have such faith in me, Quyne. You mean so much."

Quyne exhaled through her nose, her heart swelling with an emotion she couldn't explain, "And I refuse to give you up, either for a crown or a country. If they want me, they'll have to take you too."

She pulled back to kiss him soundly. He wasn't afraid. He was so confident that he could keep her, chose to love her even though they may die, "They'll never accept it. They'll tear us apart, if we even survive that far."

He took her face in his hands, and deepened their kiss, "We will find a way. I…love you, Quyne."

Her heart stuttered once more, then stopped. All the breath rushed from her lungs, and suddenly things made sense, "I love you too."

And she did. If Alistair was so sure of things, then who was she to deny him her love? Hearing him say those words, for the first time, made her feel unstoppable. And suddenly, the pain of losing him faded behind the pain of not having him. He was hers, all hers, from his muscular thighs to his dimpled cheeks. His honey-warm eyes to that beautiful smile he saved _just for her_.

"You are mine, Alistair. And I will love you as fiercely as I can, as much as you deserve. I will make you King, and we'll beat this Archdemon and laugh about it in twenty years and they'll write songs about my battle prowess and your glorious bum."

That earned a hearty laugh, "My bum? What about yours? Yours is utterly fantastic in those leather trousers Wade made."

He accented his statement with a firm slap to said bottom. And as he laid her back down, settling back between her thighs, she knew she would never let him fall.

Because she wouldn't let herself end up like her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by J.M. Barrie.  
> I know, I know! This chapter does jump around a bit, but remember Quyne is seventeen. She's at the stage in her life where her common sense is at war with her heart.


	13. Rose

_"Why not go out on a limb? Isn't that where the fruit is?"_

He found her near the Halla enclosure, her face turned up towards the brightly lit sky as she sat upon the fence. The soft nicker of the Halla and the chirping of the crickets were the only sounds that reached them, the trees acting as a barrier from the camp. It had taken all afternoon, but Alistair had finally gathered the courage to do this. He'd seen the way she looked at the Dalish, the awe and longing clearly present in her eyes, her face. He wondered how much knowledge she had of her people, and how much the Alienage kept their culture alive. Never having been in one himself, they didn't have one in Redcliffe so he only knew about them from the stories of the servants at the Chantry barracks. As he approached, Alistair saw her head incline ever so slightly to the right and heard her sigh.

"Are you alright?"

He leaned against the fence, facing away from her. He played with the rose, passing it back and forth between hands and twirling it through his fingers. She rested her arm on his shoulder, the touch sending tingles through his body and he wished he never had to wear armour so that he could feel her touch more often. "It's been a long day, and I'm not eager to go searching tomorrow."

They sat in comfortable silence, and Alistair had to stop his hand from shaking as he held up the flower. From the confused look on her face, he knew he'd have to talk. As he struggled to say the words, her face split with a soft smile and he quickly felt his nerve slipping, his face burning,

"Er…look at this. Do you know what it is?"

A pause, and then she let out a bark of laughter and Alistair felt as though Satinalia had come early. Her expression settled on amused, and his heart stopped.

"Your new weapon of choice?"

He knew he should have stopped himself, but the words came tumbling out before he could, "Yes, that's right. Watch as I thrash our enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements! Feel my thorns, darkspawn! I will overpower you with my rosy scent."

He wanted to die on the spot, melt into the ground and never be seen again. How he wished he had better control of his smart mouth, he could actually say what he meant without any deflection on his part. As she waited for an answer, he figured he'd already messed it up so he might as well be done with it and take refuge in his tent.

"Or, you know, it could just be a rose. I know that's pretty dull in comparison."

He couldn't look at her face, didn't want her to see how his breath came in shaky puffs, his cheeks aflame. An awkward moment passed, "You've been thumbing that flower for a while now."

He praised the Maker that she realised how he was feeling at the moment, "I found it in Lothering, I remember thinking how something so beautiful could exist in a place with so much despair?"

He thought he heard her sharp exhale, knew he had to be imagining the quiver in her voice, "Why are you telling me this?"

"I couldn't leave it there, the darkspawn would have tainted it…I thought I'd give it to you actually."

He risked a glance at her face, and couldn't tear his gaze away. Her eyes were shining, whether by the stars or something else he wasn't sure, but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her senseless. Alistair swallowed and looked away, but felt her take the rose and lift his chin to face her. When he opened his eyes, she was so close, a mere breath away and he knew if he moved only slightly he would have what he wanted. He searched her face for some hesitation, some sign that this wasn't what she wanted. The tension grew unbearable, and he closed his eyes, sent up a prayer and kissed her.

He never thought you could thank the Maker as much as he did in that moment, the moment when her lips moved with his, the moment they entwined themselves around each other. He wasn't sure how much time had passed when they finally pulled away, his arms around her waist, her feet stepping lightly on his toes; had he actually pulled her from the fence? As he laid his forehead against hers, he felt her sigh on his cheek, a happy sound that stirred new feelings in him, warming him considerably.

"So, are we married now?"

He couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, "You won't land me that easily, woman. I know I'm quite the prize after all."

Her mouth quirked to the side and she leaned back in to kiss him, her lips soft and warm, her bottom lip perfect between his teeth, her tongue gently caressing his lips, and when she pulled away, Alistair was dazed and breathless, "How's that for a start?"

His eyes shot open and he shuddered at her nearness, her breath teasing against his ear. He pulled her back to him fiercely, arms tight around her waist. When he released her, her hair was mussed and he reached to tuck a strand behind her ear, and she moaned at the contact. He had never heard a more heavenly sound, felt more pride than to know he was the reason for her blush, the heat in her eyes and the quickening of her breast, "Maker's breath, but you're beautiful. I am a lucky man."

Something flickered in her eyes, uncertainty he would realise after, but he was too eager to kiss her again, to feel her against him.

Eventually, they wandered back to the camp but he stopped her just before they reached the crest of the hill. The moon shone freely here, illuminating Quyne with an otherworldly glow, and he wondered if this was a dream, if she was a spirit who'd walked out of the fade and chosen him to toy with. Either way, as her eyes danced with mirth, and her lips reached back for his, he sighed against her cheek and knew his heart was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any recognised dialogue belongs to Bioware. Quote by Frank Scully.


	14. March On

_"No one can confidently say that he will still be living tomorrow."_

As she stood in her room, heart racing and breath in short gasps, Quyne wondered for the thousandth time that hour if she'd made the right decision. Her future had taken such a decisive turn since dinner, her head was still spinning and she wasn't sure which way was up. The fire had gone out, the spring chill filling the room and she could see her breath.

She was scared. No, scared was too light a word, terrified was more fitting. When she had met with Riordan in his room, she'd been imagining curling up beside Alistair in this very room, enjoying a good night's sleep before the long march back to Denerim. Even now, she wished it was all a bad dream, that soon she'd wake up in his arms and start the day over. She hadn't dared glance at Alistair when they were told, knew if she did she'd lose the nerve to make her own decision about it. About being the sacrifice.

She had a feeling, deep down, that something would go wrong. She had fought her feelings for so long, knowing something like this would happen. Though it might come down to her and Alistair and, in such a case, she knew what she would have to do. He was to be king, he would be needed to rebuild, no one else could do it. She might have been an elf, but she knew enough of how humans worked that there would be a war of succession if he died. Anora would be the primary pursuant, but not all of the Landsmeet had supported her. It would tear apart an already fragile country. She couldn't let that happen.

But Morrigan's offer had been a salvation. The chance for them both to live, to continue on after the Archdemon was slain, a failsafe that one of them would survive no matter what. It would have been so simple, all the witch needed was to lie with Alistair and conceive a child, an old god in living form. Quyne's arms wrapped firmly around her. The thought stilled her heart. Not only at Morrigan touching him, but carrying his child when she would never be able to…

She sighed out a sob, and sat down on the bed. They'd had this discussion, back in Orzammar. She wasn't afraid of dying, she'd accepted her death the minute she escaped the Arl's estate with Soris so long ago. It had kept her calm in battle, let her make the tough decisions as she knew it would be inevitable at some point. But losing Alistair, it hadn't been that long since she decided to let herself love him. No, she was the one who would take the blow, if Riordan failed. She was the leader who had taken them this far. She would see them through.

She wouldn't let him fall.

She was vaguely aware of the door swinging open, piercing through the screaming silence that she had cocooned herself in. The form of Alistair, rushing to relight the flames until they danced in the hearth, before pulling her tightly into his warm arms. He breathed in deep, and she rested her head on his chest, listening to the wild beating of his heart. She knew he'd come to the same decision as her, and she couldn't let that happen.

Later, as Alistair slept with an arm thrown around her waist, she watched the sun rise through the window over his shoulder. She took in the curve of his jaw, lightly covered in stubble. The small freckles here and there along his face and shoulders. The way his hair stuck up at the front, and the adorable snoring that signaled his deep sleep. A lump formed in her throat, and the more she memorized him, the harder it became to keep back her sobs. A silent tear, then another leaked onto the pillow and she took a ragged breath.

_You will see the end of this war, my love. And you will lead our country into a glorious future. You are so good, so strong._

_And you will be happy again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Euripides.


	15. Little Talks

_"At the temple there is a poem called 'Loss' carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read loss, only feel it."_

"Alistair?"

He looked away from his carving, as Quyne sat down kitty-corner from him, brushing her hands against her boots to rid them of the crumbs from their dinner. She had taken only a ration of bread, claiming she was too tired to eat. He could see the exhaustion in the lines around her eyes, though they still held a cheerful glow in them despite the gloom of Lothering. She had taken most of the watch before they had gotten to the sleepy hamlet, as the nightmares of the Archdemon had kept her from getting any sleep. He knew they would soon pass, he hoped sooner than later.

"We've been so busy, but do you want to talk about it?"

His hands stilled, and he couldn't meet her eyes. He knew she meant Ostagar, Duncan in particular. It had only been a week since they had left Flemeth's hut, a little longer since the disaster in those ruins. A shiver ran down his spine at the feeling of utter helplessness that plagued him whenever he thought of it. He hated himself, for being the only one left. If he had just gone with the others, maybe some of them would have survived. Maybe Duncan would be the one leading them. Instead, he'd been sent on a fool's errand, one that had failed in the end and led to his own brother's death.

"I panicked when I thought you wouldn't wake up, you know? I mean, can you imagine me doing this all on my own?"

She had a grim smile on her face, and turned to look into the fire. He studied her profile from the corner of his eye. She seemed to have almost human features, but still had the straight nose of her people, though the end turned up rather adorably. Now that he thought about, her bottom lip was wider, fuller, more enticing than the top. He wondered how it would feel- He caught himself. Adorable? Enticing? Quyne was a Warden, his leader now that he thought about it. What would Duncan say?

And his mind followed the same train of thought his mind had grown fond of as of late. The what ifs of Ostagar, running through every detail to see if there was anything he could have done different.

"Did Duncan tell you why he recruited me?"

Her voice was slightly pitched, but she kept her face aloof. In the short time he'd known her, she'd been so strong. At his silence, she continued,

"I was to be arrested for murder. I uh- my cousin and I murdered the Arl's son and his friends," at his shocked look, she quickly continued, "He was notorious for coming to the Alienage and…choosing females for his own pleasure. That day he and his friends came through, there was a celebration, a wedding. They crashed it, knocked out the groom and made away with the bridal party. I was the last to wake, by then two of the girls had already been taken. They killed a dear friend because she was praying, and it provided a distraction for Soris to come in. We fought our way to Vaughn, to save the girls they had. One of them was his sister."

She paused, and he could see the conflict in her face. Her eyes grew glassy, "We were too late, and Vaughn tried to barter to keep her, for us to turn a blind eye in exchange for walking out of his estate untouched. We left him for last.

"Duncan had been in the Alienage to see the Hahren, and he caught up with us when we made it back. I refused his offer to join the Wardens; I did not want to leave Soris to our fate. He conscripted me."

Alistair's mind whirled. Conscription was the last ditch effort to recruit for the Wardens, something Duncan said he tried not to use unless he had to, but there were only so many recruits they could get through tourneys and prisons. He wondered how many others had been recruited that way.

"So your cousin infiltrated the palace all on his own?"

He knew he'd hit a nerve when she cocked her head to the side, face turned away from him, "No, another was there. He was holding off the guards when Soris came for me. We- by the time we reached him, he'd been wounded and he died soon after."

They remained quiet for a time, the only sound the cracking of the fire in front of them. He could see Morrigan shuffling around in her tent, and really hoped she wouldn't choose to make an appearance any time soon.

"I'm sorry."

Quyne smiled at him, "What's done is done. I may have fought Duncan in the beginning, but I can guess how good of a man he was, I know he meant well. He was kind to me when other shems would've had me hang. I wish I'd known him better."

Another stretch of silence passed between them, this one tinged with an awkwardness he did not know how to clear, "He saved me too."

She quirked her head to the side, her confusion evident, reminding him of the puppies who used to litter the stables in Redcliffe. She was a strange one, this girl. She seemed so young, he wondered not for the first time how old she was, "I was in Denerim, training to become a Templar. I'd been given to the Chantry at a young age, and when they couldn't find something to do with me, I was made a recruit. Duncan recruited me during a tourney. I had lost rather spectacularly, but he said he saw something in me and fought the Grand Cleric for me, to the point that he had to evoke the Right.

"He taught me a lot. I had been quite sheltered in the Chantry, and only a stable boy before that. The other wardens, they accepted me in a way no one else ever had. We were all in the same boat, off to fight the darkspawn and defend the people in places they could never know existed. I've even been to the Deep Roads, only once mind you, and I never wish to go again. The smell is atrocious and the brontos don't make decent dining companions."

There it was again, his lame humour to cover the bile in his throat as he spoke of his lost comrades. Samual, Thomas, Clink; they had been his roommates back in Denerim, all of them Wardens much longer than him. All of them would have been a better choice than he to survive.

"Hey, there was nothing we could have done. We had our orders, this is Loghain's fault. All we can do now is try and finish what they started, to do anything but would be a dishonour to them."

Alistair sniffed and wiped his face, trying to hide the embarrassment he knew showed in the flush of his cheeks. When he looked back up, Quyne was staring at him, arms crossed over her chest and a smile playing on her lips, something shining in her eyes. Clearly his throat, he resumed his carving, "Right."

Her smile widened, "I have no idea what I'm doing either Alistair. I worked in the palace district before this. You were in the Chantry and Morrigan was…doing what witches do. We'll just have to figure it out as we go."

He laughed, "So, for now, we're just three blind mice off to fight the big bad wolf?"

Her laugh was loud and musical, and warmed him from his toes to his ears, his face a goofy grin, "Exactly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Arthur Golden.


	16. Going Home

_"A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is braver five minutes longer."_

Whoever decided to invent spiral stairs obviously had no thought to actually using them. Sure, they hindered invaders but they were damn exhausting. So it was huffing and puffing that Quyne and her companions burst out at the top of Fort Drakon to find utter chaos.

She shared a quick look with Zevran, whose face looked entirely foreign, all grim lines and blood spatters. They had both seen Riordan hurdle off the dragon's back, his cry of shock following his fall. He offered her a small smile, but she knew exactly what he was thinking.

 **_The bitter wind_ ** _pulled at their cloaks and slipped in the joints of their armour. She walked shoulder to shoulder with her friend, who sang bawdy songs quietly for their amusement, "If you ever get the chance after all this, you must teach these to Oghren. I imagine you might even make him blush."_

_His husky laugh lifted her spirits, "Ah, we shall definitely get the chance, me and you. We could take our show to the Pearl."_

_The wink he sent her made her laugh, but it was cut short when she remembered herself and her last conversation with Alistair. Her change in demeanour tipped him off, and he threw an arm around her slim shoulders, "We will get the chance, cara. This isn't the end."_

_"But it is, Zev!"_

_Zevran stopped dead in his tracks. Her jaw dropped in horror, and she quickly averted her eyes and tried to cover herself, "What I mean was-"_

_The fierce look on his face silenced her, and he pulled her close, "You know you are a bad liar. Tell me what this is about."_

_She refused to answer. They were garnering some attention, standing still as the troops marched past. "Quyne."_

_He never used her name. She felt like a child being chastised as she played with her hands, head tilting to the side as she looked up. With a sigh, they resumed their walk. And she explained everything. How only a warden could kill the Archdemon because it would draw out the soul. How only one soul could exist in one body. How there were only three wardens left in all of Ferelden. And when she got to the part about Morrigan, she felt tears rise in her eyes as she described her choice to refuse the ritual, to be the one who wouldn't fail in this task._

_He was silent for a while, the only noise from him being the quiet click of his teeth grinding. She was at a loss, she didn't know what she could say to comfort him. She could only imagine what was going through his head. She sniffled and wiped her nose, runny from her tears and the cold, "I'm sorry, Zevran. If Riordan fails, there is no other way. I won't let him die."_

_He nodded after a moment and they continued in silence. As the sun began to set above them, he reached for her hand and grasped it tightly, "I will follow you, cara, until the very end. And I will return you to him."_

Their entrance didn't go unnoticed. No sooner had Sten barred the door behind them, the darkspawn ran for them. The thrill of the fight sang in her veins, and she was thankful for the calm it brought her. She focused on the task at hand and soon, the Archdemon was brought crashing to the stone tower top, barreling through parapets in its fall. The wreckage fell and she hoped none of her companions were below. That they were safe.

That Alistair still breathed.

**_"Alistair!"_ **

_Denerim was burning when they arrived at the main gate of the city. She quickly lost sight of her friends in the chaos that ensued. They came in never-ending waves and she struggled against so many at once. Taking two down, she caught sight of the large man bashing through a group of genlocks, Sten swooping in behind. As he turned back to join the fray, he didn't notice the emissary running towards him. She called to him again, "Alistair, look out!"_

_Her voice was lost in the din. She took a deep breath and shot off, using a trick Zev had helped her refine. She quickly appeared behind the emissary not ten feet from Alistair and drove one blade into his neck, the other under his ribs. She threw him off with a cry and smirked at Alistair's relieved face. She heard his yell of thanks right before she turned to stab a Hurlock through the thigh._

_Finally, the onslaught ended. She was left heaving, back to back with Zev. They had found each other not too long ago and took to tag-teaming any who crossed their paths. Riordan pulled her to the side, and gave her the best news she'd heard all day. Someone had to remain at the gate. Someone who would defend from here, to give them the chance to reach Fort Drakon and defeat the Archdemon. The wheels of her mind churned quickly now, and she approached Alistair with her plan._

_"Bollocks, I'm coming with you! Riordan said-"_

_"Let me clear the way! Riordan has this, if you hold the gate and I clear the path, he will slay the damned dragon and we'll be done with it! You're the brawn in this relationship, if anyone can hold the gate, it's you."_

_He didn't laugh at her quip, and she could tell he didn't entirely believe her, but he sighed and pulled her close, foreheads together, "Thanks for that, love."_

_She burst out a laugh, and kissed him soundly, "You know what I mean. Trust me, love. You can do this. I love you so much. I love you, I love you."_

_The smile he gave her broke her heart. She tried to memorize everything about him one last time, held his biceps a little bit tighter, "I love you too, sweetheart," They stood quiet a moment, staring in each other's eyes, "Quyne, come back to me."_

_And with that, her heart was left a gaping hole and she grew numb, "Ara sal’shiral. Ethas na, ma vhenan."_

_Her words were clumsy, her pronunciation not as refined as her parents' had been. She felt there was no better time, no more time really, to share it with him. He looked at her in awe, "What-"_

_She quieted him with a kiss, "I'll tell you sometime."_

Maker, she already missed him. Her plan had come quickly, probably not the best thought out either. They had struggled all the way here, and poor Leliana was nursing the worst of it, a broken foot from an ogre. But she knew, without a doubt, if Alistair had come to the top with them, there was no way she'd have been able to save him.

Just as there was no way, right now, that he'd know Riordan was dead. He would assume that the older warden had been the one to do the deed.

Alistair _was_ ever the optimist.

The sky was blood red up there, high above the smoke of the fires below. The Archdemon threw back its head with an angry cry and tried again to raise itself from the roof, "Take out its wings, Lel!"

She heard the bard call out the signal, and dozens of arrows shot through the sky. She couldn't wipe the smile off her face. Their allies had lasted this long and were providing much needed support. She found herself thanking the Maker and whatever Elvhen gods were listening for the thousandth time that day.

Time seemed to change its pace, the minutes being counted by the waves of darkspawn. Another of the generals appeared and she hoped it was the last. Their troops were dwindling, and the Archdemon still breathed fire down on them. She became lost in a trance, her senses attuned to the battle around her, the blood she spilt giving her courage to keep going.

Suddenly, things grew quiet. She could hear a voice, see Zev's lips moving as he pulled her behind some rubble. He rubbed her cheeks, "Come back to us, _cara._ This stillness is no good for you."

Her mind faded back into awareness, her senses relaxing to their normal state. She smiled at her friend and pressed their foreheads together, "Thank you, my brother."

His eyes met hers, and she was reminded once again of warm caramel. He pulled her in close, wrapping his arms tightly around her, "We are almost there. We are so close, _cara._ _Rimanere forte, non si arrendono ancora._ "

She laughed, a thin watery thing, "Zev, you're speaking gibberish. Buck up, and let's win this thing, yea?"

He laughed, but it stayed thick in his throat, "Aye, yes, _cara._ Let's show this dragon who's boss, hm?"

**_"Mamae, sing it again! Again!"_ **

_Her mother laughed and pulled her fingers through her hair, tugging lightly at the tangles. She smiled up at Adaia, her grin from ear to ear. She loved when her mother and father had days off from their work. They had taken her out of Denerim, out into the fields of long grass that grew off the sides of the road. She had run and hid and chased the rabbits that lived there, and now lay sleepily on her mother's lap._

_"You are so persistent, emm'asha."_

_Cyrion smiled from where he lay reading next to them, "Tell her the one from the Dales. The one your mother used to tell."_

_She was confused, what was a Dale? They must be very old if it was mother's mother knew it. Instantly she stopped her fidgeting and lay very quiet, waiting for her mother to start. Her mother was smiling at her father, a special smile she would notice sometimes. It always made her father's ears turn red._

_"Long ago, there was a great Hahren who kept council over Halamshiral…"_

_It was a long story. She drifted in and out of sleep, her mother's fingers never leaving her hair. Only once did Adaia stop, and she roused slightly to hear her mother's low words,_

_"As they heard the men crowding outside the city gates, the Hahren called for his people's attention and blessed them one last time, 'When it comes time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, who when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.'"_

The roar was deafening and shook her to her very core. It was a cry for help, a cry of distress, of pain, of suffering.

This was it.

The other darkspawn had frozen in awe of their Old God, unsure of what to do. She stood with some difficulty, her dislocated shoulder nearly useless. Her hair stuck to her skin, slick with sweat and blood. The harsh Guardian winds blew ash across the roof, and her eyes teared up. Her companions drew close to her, Zev placing his unbroken hand on her shoulder and she looked to each one.

Sten, who pushed her to better herself.

The ever loyal Leliana, who taught her more about being a woman than anyone ever had.

And Zevran, who had become her best friend, her closest friend, throughout everything.

She remembered the others, the good conscience that was Wynne. Oghren, who could always make her laugh. Shale, who she hoped found a way to be happy, and Ross, who was more of a comfort than anyone realized.

She remembered her father and her mother, who had loved her so much. Who had loved each other for so long only to have it torn away by greedy men.

She remembered Shianni and Soris, more like siblings than cousins, and their lives growing up in the Alienage. The support they brought her, and she them, and the times they snuck liquor from Alarith and sat on the rooftops of their home.

She remembered Nola and Valendrian and Sister Fiola. She remembered Nelaros, and his kind eyes and how he looked under the Vhenadahl, when they had married.

She remembered Alistair.

She ached for him, wanted to see him one last time. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel his rough skin under her palm. Almost smell the warm grass and armour polish. She remembered the look he gave her, before she left him at the gate. That look made her believe that everything they had promised each other, it would have turned out if things had been different.

But as she watched the pitiful creature writhing in front of her, she felt a sense of peace descend over her. She was no longer afraid. Her mind turned away from the battle and to that perfect day, before the Landsmeet, before everything changed. Her limbs grew strong at the feel of his breath against her ear. Her steps were guided by the sound of his voice whispering in the night. And when she saw the broad sword on the ground in front of her, it was the strength of his arms around her that lifted the blade high to drive it into the Archdemon.

**_"Wake up, beautiful."_ **

_She stirred, wrinkling her nose at the bright sunlight. Snuggling back down into his shoulder, she felt Alistair's low chuckle resonate through his chest. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, inhaling deeply, "I was having the craziest dream."_

_"Was I in it?"_

_Her brow furrowed a moment as she struggled to remember, "I remember feeling very warm, but it was Zevran there-"_

_He rolled them over with a growl, placing fluttering kisses on her neck causing her to laugh out. He proceeded to tickle her sides mercilessly, and it was only when she started shrieking that he stopped. The look on her face clearly showed her irritation, "Well I'm awake now, you brute. What are you going to do about it?"_

_He kissed her quick on the lips before getting out of bed and padding naked over to the wash basin, "I've got another meeting with Eamon and Teagan. They want to start talking strategy for the Landsmeet. We leave-"_

_She couldn't hide her disappointment, and Alistair quickly cottoned on, "You know what, how about I show you around Redcliffe?"_

_"I thought you had a meeting?"_

_"If Eamon had an arse like yours, you can trust I'd be waiting at his office door. We leave for Denerim in two days. And there'll be plenty of time to talk on the road."_

_Sometime over the night, the ground had frozen and the cloudy skies promised cold weather. Alistair managed to rustle up some warm spiced wine and tucked the flask away before they set off down towards town. If they had been normal, this would have been their every day. But for two people who lived in constant movement, those peaceful hours, with no pressure to get anything done, made for the perfect day._

_First, he took her down to visit the stables where he used to sleep, where they watched the mabari pups playing among the stalls and horses. Next up was a walk down to the docks, where they broke out the mead and skipped stones. They wandered the back alleys and the market, where they tasted the salted meats and hearty breads common to the lowlands around Lake Calenhad. He pulled her in for a kiss, disregarding any stares, and kept her tight to his side as they wandered from stall to stall. Having always lived in such a big city, Quyne was still unaccustomed to mingling in small crowds and seeing long landscapes. So, with baked apples in their pockets, Alistair took her by the hand and they made their way up to the top of the beautiful cliffs that gave them the perfect view of the valley._

_"Hurry up, old man! It's just a little hill!"_

_The look on his face sent her into a fit of giggles, "It's a bloody big hill and these are new boots. And who are you calling old?"_

_He tackled her when they reached even ground, turning those giggles to moans before they realized how cold the ground really was. He pulled her to her feet and led her over to a sheet of flat rock, whose moss had retreated with the cold leaving. There they sat, shoulders pressed together, drinking and eating and watching the winter sun light the red hills a brilliant crimson, "Thank you for today, Alistair."_

_She felt his lips press to her hood-clad hair, "Anytime, love. Though next time, maybe we'll pick a day that isn't so freezing, yea?"_

_"Here's hoping we get another chance," she said, tilting the flask before taking a sip._

_"We have plenty of time. Forever, right?"_

_"Right."_

_His arm wrapped around her shoulders, and she snuggled into him. It chased away the chill that had begun to seep through her cloak and, accompanied with her full belly, she found herself dozing, "When do you think we'll get some real time to relax? I could do with a nap."_

_"Right now? Outdoors, in winter, on the side of a cliff?"_

_She smiled lazily, ear to ear, "Why, I've got you! To keep me warm and make sure I don't roll myself off. Maker, what would everyone do then? Fight their own Blight?"_

_He chuckled and she felt her eyes slip close, "Get some rest, love. You deserve it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson and Adaia's song is a quote by Tecumseh.


	17. Blush

_"He liked her; it was as simple as that."_

He was sure the Grand Cleric wanted to punish him for his conscription, using him as her errand boy as she was. Not that he was complaining, it was relatively easy work and he was able to use his humour to make things more interesting. Like with this mage for example. He stared at the man who fumed at him, keeping his face aloof and his stance casual. When the mage stormed off, he heard laughing from behind him and turned to see who found him amusing.

Whoever it was was rather short, and seemed to be a woman, if the ill-fitting armour held any clue. Lithe limbs reached up to remove her helmet, as the thin neck tossed her head around to shake out her hair, "Are you Alistair?"

His heart fluttered, he was hardly aware of the things he was saying. Maker's grace, she was lovely. Her dark hair was short for a woman, and cut so uneven he wondered if she had just chopped off a braid. Her skin was smooth and radiant, her brow unwrinkled; he wondered how old she was. He noticed her lips moving, but the words only just registered in his mind. Her mouth was small, pouting and her chin was slightly pointed. Her eyes drew him in next, he had never seen such a clear blue before, unblemished by any other colour. They were large on her face, animated as she spoke. She tucked some strands behind her ears; they were small and delicately pointed at the tips. Wait- an elf! He had never seen an elf with such a countenance before, so self-assured and proud. Even the elven Grey Wardens, all of two of them, were quiet and kept to themselves a bit, still unsure of their position in life. He was so caught up in studying her face that he only noticed something was wrong when she began to look uncomfortable, "Er- sorry?"

"I asked how you knew I was from Denerim?"

He could feel his cheeks flaming, "Oh er-Duncan sent word ahead, he spoke quite highly of you."

He found he quite liked what that blush did to her face, and the spark it brought to her eyes. Unfortunately, his foot-in-mouth condition kicked in, commenting on the fact that there were so few female wardens, in which case all trace of amusement disappeared from her face and she sent him such a cold look it sent a shiver across his back. She carefully masked herself after that comment, and it was all he could do to deflect the situation and suggest they find Duncan. As she stalked off ahead of him, he found his gaze wandering down her body and he swallowed thickly, forcing himself to look away. This was going to be a long trip.

Later, as they wandered the Wilds, he found himself feeling out of sorts. He now understood why Duncan had recruited her, but she had no idea what she was in for. If the Joining wasn't successful…

He didn't want to think about it.

She looked blissful, clearly in her element, laughing with the other recruits and wandering at the fringes of their little group, trying to see everything the Wilds had to offer. She was currently studying a chart they'd found on a dead Brother, trying to match it to their map. Her tongue licked out at her bottom lip, wetting it as her brow furrowed in concentration. Alistair tried to focus on wiping darkspawn blood from his sword, but the little tip of that tongue provided ample distraction. Quite suddenly, she let out an excited cry and began to scribble on the map, carelessly dropping the chart to the ground. The look of childlike wonder and excitement on her face made his heart speed up, and the wide, toothy grin she sent him made his stomach dance in tune. He barely heard her as she bounded over to him, showing him the map eagerly, enthusiastic about finding a cache hidden somewhere up the road. He nodded his agreement, and the look of elation that filled her eyes made him smile lopsidedly back at her. He found he liked the way her face shined; her curiosity gave her eyes an impish sparkle. He heard himself comment, and whatever he said made her throw her head back and laugh, loud and unbridled. That grin on his face grew.

And, as she wandered away ahead of them, navigating her way with the map, Alistair found he couldn't quite wipe the smile off his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote by Nicholas Sparks.


End file.
